
)M THE FOOTHILLS 




MAKY LINDABRADLEY 




Book_iZ22iL£V- t' 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



FROM THE FOOTHILLS 



FROM THE FOOTHILLS 

BY MARY LINDA BRADLEY 




PORTLAND MAINE 

THE MOSHER PRESS 

MDCCCCXIV 












COPYRIGHT 

MARY LINDA BRADLEY 

1914 



AUG 26 1914 

CLA379249 



TO MY FATHER 

WILLIAM HARRISON BRADLEY 

THIS BOOKLET 

IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED 



CONTENTS 



TO MY FATHER 

WEST MOUNTAIN . 

POLO PRACTICE AT LAKEWOOD 

MID-WOOD .... 

WINTER WOODS 

THE FORGE .... 

INCURABLE .... 

A RIDE IN THE NEW FOREST 

MONTREAL FROM MOUNT ROYAL 

WHITEFIELD, N. H. 

THE LOSS OF THE TITANIC . 

NORTHERN MARCH . . . 

A HAND 

THE WILD-CAT RIVER AT JACK 

SON, N. H 

THE HOUSE OF PAIN 

EARLY MORNING HOCKEY AT 

OGONTZ .... 

TO OGONTZ .... 
TO MRS. W. H. ... 

ATHLETES AT PRACTICE 
U GIVE US ... . DAILY BREAD' 
THE CARPENTER . 
THE ORCHARD-SEA 



3 

6 

9 

10 

11 

12 

13 
15 
18 
19 
20 
23 
25 

26 

27 

30 
33 
39 
40 
41 
42 
45 



vn 



CONTENTS 

PAGB 

BERRY-BOY 46 

RESOLUTION 47 

MINE HABITATION .... 48 

AN EVEN-SONG .... 50 

EARTH-THOUGHT .... 52 

MOON-GRIEF 53 

TO H. R. H. THE DUKE OF CON- 
NAUGHT 54 

THE KNOWER 56 

THE CRUCIFIXION .... 57 

EARTH-LOVE .... 59 

HOUSE-OPENING .... 60 

SONNET 62 

SONNET 63 

SONNET .64 

OLD SONG 65 

"THE PROSPERITY OF FOOLS SHALL 

DESTROY THEM" ... 66 

MY MOTHER 67 

CANOEING ON THE ALLEGHENY 

RIVER 68 

TO GENERAL NOGHI ... 70 

ECHOES 71 

A WAKEFUL LUTANIST . . 72 

PAVLOWA AND NOVIKOFF . . 75 

A LETTER 76 



Vlll 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TRAVELLERS 77 

SKI-RUNNER'S SONG . 78 

TO THE THOMAS ORCHESTRA . 79 

DIVORCE 80 

"AND THE WATERS PREVAILED 

EXCEEDINGLY" .... 81 
ANNUAL TRAMP OF THE SNOW- 
SHOE CLUBS 82 

FOUR STUDIES IN SCARLET . . 83 
RODIN'S "LE PENSEUR" ... 84 
RODIN'S "ADAM" .... 85 
RODIN'S "PYGMALION AND GAL- 
ATEA" .... 86 
LOWLY MIRACLES . . 87 



IX 



FROM THE FOOTHILLS 




TO MY FATHER 




HOU hast gone on thy journey poet-eyed, 
With a brave strength that failed not for defeat. 
Thou hast, with reverent hands, as it was meet 
m Fingered the very soul of art and vied 
In Nature-love with that old host who cried 
To Bacchus ; or old Pan, whose blithe hoof-beat 
Coursed in familiar woods, who loved to greet, 
With voice of reeds, the wild things at his side. 

Ah ! thou hast richly in three score years grown, 

Seeing the master-work of man with wise 
Clear sight, feeling the touch of God and prone 

To call Life good with lips unstained with sighs. 
Nor ever hast thou garnered discontent, 
But shedst it as the spirit's cerement. 



II 



I scarcely knew thee with my childish brain. 
Shy as a dream, I saw in thee the spring 
Of god-like strength, maintained for me to bring 

The quivering, splintered finger and all pain 

For soothing cure; but of that gallant train 

Of magic souls I knew, of thought whose wing 
Brushed through my mind like April sun, no thing 

In faltering words from me didst thou obtain. 

The god was great. How should he care to see 
A child's vague images of mystery? 
But when I grew, the god became a man, 
And near this man-heart did I creep to scan 
Its stuff of deeds. And lo ! I found in it 
Places of dreams than mine more exquisite. 



Ill 

I mind me, in that land whence we are sprung, 

Through a great brick-walled garden we would stray, 
Where white-cupped fox-gloves nodded near our way 

Great flaming poppies listlessly o'er-hung 

The path, and the laburnum-blossoms swung 
Like slender, yellow lamps. The evening lay 
About us as we went, and drowsy day 

Was hushed to rest while throstle-songs were sung. 



Ve used to loiter near an aged wall, 
Brushed by the sun-touched leaves of one huge oak ; 
And thou didst show me how incorporate 
^ith light those leaves had grown — till they seemed all 
Of brittle gold. . . There, through thee, Nature woke 
In me a passion grown inviolate. 



IV 



/hen thou art gone where I must also go, 
In quiet trust beyond the mighty sleep, 
To other dreams which thou wilt foremost reap, 

orget not those we fashioned here and know 

o have been good. And I, dear one, I trow 
Shall look to that fair time when we shall keep 
Again close comradeship, more fine and deep 

erchance, than here midst blunders such could grow. 

"hen thou shalt teach my childhood-of-the-sky 

'he simplest knowledge of eternity ; 
So may we learn and love as aeons roll, 
Till we have earned the glory of the whole. 

nd all the trespasses of Death and Chance, 

fe knew on earth, have wise significance. 



WEST MOUNTAIN 

£ (*Y I THERE were, in that place, woods ! " 'twas thus 

JL I thought 
Of thee, my Ridgefield, when I was a child, — 
A child whose soul haunted the thought of woods, 
While little feet pattered on pavement stones. 

I knew thee in one Summer, at the age 
When every copse conceals a hidden brave — 
Perchance ! — when wall-side fruit is gathered in, 
The hiding outlaw's only sustenance — 
Till supper-time ! I wove thee, shaggy hill, 
Into my childhood's radiant pageantry 
Of Play, then bore afar the memory, 
The flavor of those guerdoned Summer days. 

There dwindled seven years. I claimed thee u home" 
Through many wanderings. And lo ! a house 
Sprang up, new-made, high on the massive breast 
Of the maternal mountain and my dream 
Lived in these timbered and these stucco walls. 

I see, as in a glass, how first we drove 

Within rude, paintless gates and eagerly 

I spurned the carriage and fled up the hill, 

Craving to lay my hands upon the door 

Of home. The keen fresh marvel of that Spring 



I see, the sudden life, so different 

To the slow birth of England's vernal brood. 

I found that all my mute imaginings 

Were but as fragments of the wealth that lay 

Hoarded in dim ravine, or sunny slope, 

Where the hot, fecund soil brought forth a mass 

Of frail, warm strawberries . . . and dog-wood trees 

Stood tangled in the green — a mesh of cloud ! 

The ruddy trillium and the violet 

Hemmed the slim reeds, while all that pliant green 

Was threaded blue with irises. The split 

Moss-mottled rocks cradled red columbine 

— Such fragile flames ! and through the last year's leaves 

Was blood-root sewn, a startled white against 

Old, rusty brown. Laurel ! I may not hail 

Thee like to this or that, for I have walked 

Where thou hast flanked the path and verily 

Been stunned with joy ... let it suffice to say : 

" Laurel, more lovely than thy singing name ! " 

I branded all renascense with the fire 

Of an unstinted, glad and watchful love. 

Most sacred, there I learned the speech of art 

From Nature's lips; I learned her ancient joy 

Fresh as pure water from a deep, cold well 

In August days. The Mountain-mother wrought 

With this wild, heedless, thirsting self, 

Taught me such spirit-lore that I am hers 



As though she bore me with the perfect trees 
And yearned above her one imperfect child. 

Down in the valley, girdled by three roads, 
Amid the matted grass and wayward shrub, 
Lie my forefathers in their decent rows. 
They kept their creeds and loved the village-street 
That steals below the urn-like elms. But I, 
Who love them too, those distant, curious dead, 
Could ne'er abide to be bound in by roads 
In that still city of thin, upright stones. 
Mother, strong mother of a restless child, 
Hold me in life with thy transcendent calm ; 
Touch me with thy relentless discipline 
Of time and change — for I am surely thine, 
Bone of thy rock, flesh of thy soil and dream 
Of those thy cloud-dreams, by the Sun invoked. 
When I must sleep, O Mother-mountain, thou 
Shalt bear my bones at last, as thou hast borne 
Anew my spirit to delight. Shrouded 
Between thy breasts, in rich soft mould, 
Deal with me as thou dealest with the leaves. 



POLO PRACTICE AT LAKEWOOD 

J nry IS the Spring, it is April comes riding the wind, 
A Stripping the oaks of their out-worn attire, 

Driving the leaves with a rollicking stroke 
Clear of the laborers, clear of their fire, 
Where the roots in the sod have their fibres close-twined. 
Out on the polo field, gauzy with smoke. 

On the green, like a draught of lithe, whimsical leaves, 
Wheeling, the ponies skim after the ball; 

Bay leaves and chestnut and brown in a flight ! 
They are keen as the click when a mallet achieves, 
Driving the ball in far-leaping delight 
Down 'twixt the post of the goal, standing tall. 

Clangs out the bell ; they are grouped for the game. 
For a moment they strain in a rough-jostling press, 
(Hear how the leather of saddle and bridle 
Mutters and squeaks as the steeds push and sidle !) 
Then the nucleus breaks. Like a star in recess, 
Shoots forth the ball toward the end of the frame. 

Oh the sound of the clean-flying feet on the turf ! 

(Beat of my heart in the beat of a hoof ! ) 
'T is the noise of the rushing and roar of the surf, 
Warring of drums and the battle's grim proof ! 
Song of those Centaurs who harry and fly, 
Fast as the rack of a storm streaming by ! 



MID-WOOD 

THERE where the yellow heat hath seeped into 
The craving earth through every tree upon 
The mountain-side; where Eve hath won 
The very green to gold, I watched, and through 
The half-light and the sentient silence knew 

That stranger-dreams would pass me by. Anon. 
Would this dim, leafy-frescoed pantheon 
Disclose the secret that with it upgrew. 

The stir of branches brought the discus' sound, 
Kissing the air; some grasses breathed a sigh, 

— Apollo's anguish at the ruddy wound 
On dying Hyacinthus' brow ! And I, 

Merged in this fancy, saw him as he slept, 

Beheld the iris grow while Phcebus wept. 



10 



WINTER WOODS 

THE foot-hills wrap them with the winter's snow, 
And all the trees stand modestly and slim, 
Changed by the Autumn's skillful prism and whim 
To seven colors, then, in burnished glow, 
To patterned bronze, 'neath such device as grow 
The potter Massier's vases, rich and dim, 
— Luminous pigments, fading as they limn ! 
So shine these gentle steeps I love and know. 

And I, I follow Pan midst frozen mounds, 
Or, in a frame of silence, listen mute 
As he in plaintive musings from his lute, 
The sleep-song of a stricken Nature sounds; 
Weaving the ruthless hurt of centuries 
Into a god's lament for all that dies. 



11 



THE FORGE 

THE crippled god lay dead where he had wrought 
His many works beside the forge. He lay, 
His brown breast bared and all the muscle-play 
Of those two branch-like arms was still, and nought 
Of that great strength, of all the grieving thought 
Had Death sapped from his face. Not Jove this clay 
Could cleanse from such a harsh-hued pain. Alway 
The god had forged and failed in what he sought, 
— To form one perfect weapon ! Years ago 
Came to that lone, unhallowed grove a band 
Of men, and from the fallen Vulcan's hand 
They took the tools and with them toiled. And lo ! 
They fashioned them a cross and bore it thence . . . 
The dead god's face was touched with calm intense. 



12 



INCURABLE 

THEY tell me that I have the sickness, here 
Under this breathing bosom where the clear 
Smooth skin dresses the muscle and the bone. 
It is not death that makes my spirit groan 
With unpent bitterness in this bleak hour, 
Nor foiled ambitions of a nascent power, — 
But life, that I must face from this sheer brink 
Of swift decay ! (it makes the body shrink 
Like rye before the wind) — that rottenness 
Of flesh, of sinew and of strength, no less 
Than sure, embased corruption before death. 
And I — ah God! — have loved with every breath 
The straight limbs' beauty and the torso's build, 
And, at its play of shadows, I have thrilled 
With a pure artist-eye, ev'n as I thrill 
To see cloud-shadows cleave a sun-lit hill. 
I, dwelling in the high God's temple, must 
Feel the thing crumble to infectious dust, 
Behold the mouldering and the spreading stain, 
While the shamed spirit struggles in its chain. 

Would I had been a statue carved in stone, 
That all this manhood had in marble grown ! 
Bereft of wrong and sorrow, without will, 
Fashioned to senseless beauty 'neath the skill 
Of hammer guided by Praxiteles, 

13 



When Athens whitely starred bold, restless seas 

Or, deftly rent from old Carraran cave. 

Found immortality without a grave, 

Bruised from some block by Michael Angelo 

To brood upon the ages as they go, 

Until the Maker shatter His earth's crust 

And form be spent in unpolluted dust. 



14 



A RIDE IN THE NEW FOREST 

HOW we rode that gold October 
Through New Forest in old Hampshire, 
When the heath was brown and sober, 
When the tattered woods in glory 
Grew as in a fairy-story ! 

— Saw the oak-trees jut and mingle 

All their limbs in uncouth grandeur! 
Mighty hollies filled the dingle 

With their crimson fruitage spattered ; 

Streaks of light were birches scattered. 

Up the ford of Ipley river 

Rode we, crouching low from branches, 
Where the stream is but a sliver 

And the darkling silence hallows. 

How the hoofs spoke in the shallows ! 

Sudden, in a glade the conies 

Flipped their tails, were gone . . . and yonder 
Stared at us three forest-ponies. 

As th' Agister loudly shouted 

Fled the colts in panic routed. 

Then we left those pleasant places, 

Chequered grove and tangled coppice, 
Took a road that interlaces 



15 



Field and wood and manor-village; 
Pheasants flickered midst the tillage. 

Every hedge bore golden patching, 
And the fiery cottage-creepers 
Flamed up high toward sun-burnt thatching. 

Past an Inn, whose sign-board twinkled ! 

Toward the heath where far trails wrinkled ! 



'Twixt the bogs and down the wheel-rut, 

— O thou lithe, light-footed Stella ! — 
How such gathering muscles feel, cut 

Clean for earth-flight in cool weather ! 

Fetlock deep in tarnished heather ! 

In the woods we paused and rested, 
Lay amidst the tawny bracken, 

Or through leaf-ceiled wood-gloom quested 
Ate our bread and watched the horses 
Near the yellow-sprinkled gorses. 

On beyond the church of Boldre, 

Where at Shirleyholmes the gipsies 

String their fires as shades grow colder ! 
Caravan and tent were blended 
With the wood's rough fringe extended. 

16 



And the cooking-pots were steaming; 

Some one strummed a blithe accordion, 

While the women's smiles were gleaming. 
There a Carmen smoked, lean-fingered, 
Blue, her cigarette-smoke lingered. 

So we passed midst curious glances, 
And one gipsy ran pursuant 

To foretell our lucky chances : 
" Pretty Sir, joys come, a'many ! " 
"Leave no tins? Well — here 's a penny ! 

Then the dusk and tired horses, 

By th' Agister's calls encouraged, 

On the home-trail spent their forces, 

— Fleeting shades, midst shades uncertain, 
For the wood wrapped like a curtain ! 

"Aw-i ! Aw-i!" — then the thunder 

Of the whip-lash cheered the gallop, 

While the soggy ground screamed under. 
Silver shoes in flight protracted 
Flashed like crescent-moons distracted. 

Gallant, gracious haunts of story ! 

Hill and heath and glade and forest ! 

How the Vert revealed its glory ! 
Lo ! the year was dying sober, 
But we lived that gold October. 

17 



MONTREAL FROM MOUNT ROYAL 

LOW, 'neath the Royal Mount the city spun 
Swift threads of wintry sun immaculate 
Amid the warp of clinging snows. The great 
Pale river spurned the builded banks to run 
And writhe toward sea below the ice, to shun 
The burden of the loaded craft of freight. 
Fair as a scroll in gold illuminate, 
Gleamed spires and roofs below the swooning sun. 

We stood amazed upon the mountain's flank, 
Felt the rich silence, only broidered by 
The restless sleigh-bells' quivering cry 
From far, that reached our haunt. Deep-breathed 
we drank 
The scene as wine and dimly recognised 
This town, — one thought of God materialised ! 



18 



WHITEFIELD, N. H. 

THIS place the goblet of the gods might be, 
Beaten and wrought from bronze and opal hills 
Shot with Autumnal red. When morning fills 
The cup with yellow wine and clouds hang free 
About the range's brim all foamily, 

Perchance Thor stoops his face to quaff, and spills 
The draught adown his throat — as freshet -rills 
Are lost in the loose roots of some huge tree ! 

High at the goblet's rim, I, watching dream — 

As men will dream of gods — I see Thor slake 
His mighty thirst on sun and cloud. 'T would seem 
My lips have touched the self-same wine, to wake 
An echo of immortals' joy. I wist 
Valhalla gleams beyond the wreathing mist. 



19 



THE LOSS OF THE TITANIC 

THE force that curbs, or urges on the sea, 
Flicked her surf-pinions, ruffled angrily, 
And sank the caravels of mighty Spain ; 
Then, as content with all that wasted gain, 
Abode an age or two with smaller prey, 
Till Man grew boastful of his vaunted sway. 
With stealthy cunning of a masked device, 
The Force then summoned fiefs of gnarled ice, 
And all that steel and all that steam attain 
Became as those lost caravels of Spain, — 
The swollen, rotted craft of times of yore, 
That spilled their gold upon the ocean's floor! 
They sift the colored fishes in still hordes 
Between their spongy ribs, whose casing-boards 
Are long since shed. 

How many a galleon 
Stirred in its sleepy ooze, when down upon 
The ocean-valley huge Titanic blurred? 
What war has Nature waged, what man has erred, 
That this great habitation from the sun 
Should falter down, a burial-pantheon, 
Bearing its thousand sacrificial souls 
To where eternal dimness wide unrolls? 

Two miles below the salt sea's scummy waste 
The mammoth Titan of our times doth taste 



20 



The utmost dregs of death. She has gone down 

With all her palace-pleasures and renown, 

The while that barren, spectral berg, — whose bulk 

Pressed in her bow and sent a reeling hulk 

To quake the greenish silence of the deep — 

Rides coldly on, a massive Keep, 

Grim-lowering to its foes ! She has gone down 

The lofty Titan with her living town; 

And, in our midst, lie hearts as crushed as she 

Who hides her horrid wound in mystery 

And cloaks her furnace-fires, that none may need, 

With hissing water and with alien weed. 

O gallant Souls, who reaped such death that those 
The Weak, might live ! The Titan's throes 
Are echoed in a stricken Nation's heart. 
The whole world bows its head and the long smart 
Of spirit-pain is laid upon us all. 
But they who kneel before an unseen pall, 
Who dream and wake to tremble in the day — 
Maker of Life and Death, their fragile clay 
Lies scarred, distorted in thy sentient hand, 
Blind suffering that cannot understand ! 
Stand by, since none stood by upon the sea, 
And heal the fever of their agony. 

The Titan has gone down. God keep her dead, 
As men shall keep the severed, brilliant thread 

21 



Of all the good, of all the valiant deeds 
Of loyal loving and of faithful creeds 
Those lost lives stood for in the crowded mart. 
And when their work is traced in noblest part, 
Oh ponder that great passing on the deep, — 
So god-like that we scarcely dare to weep ! 



22 



NORTHERN MARCH 

OH the month of March is waning, though 
the Winter will not go 
And I 'm yearning for the sodden-sounding 
rain, 
As it sweeps among the woodlands where the 
Spring 's begun to grow, 
Till the earth is draped with water from 
West Mountain to the plain. 

I can shut my eyes, beholding how the flicker- 
ing torrents shoot 
Down where August finds their trails as dry 
as bone. 
I can feel the frost-freed soil that would engulf 
the passing foot; 
Mark the runnels in the roadway where the 
careless flood has gone. 

1 can hear the cedars soughing in the hill-side 
cedar-grove, 
With their water-tangled branches all a-drip; 
I can see the glossy laurel that through barren 
Winter throve 
And the earliest anemone with upturned, 
thirsty lip. 

23* 



But here, sluggard March is waning, though 
the Winter will not wane, 
And the skies unloose their snow unlessening, 
— Endless idle, fluttering cohorts that have 
stilled an Autumn's pain, 
And caress one's cheek as coldly as a dead 
moth's dusty wing. 

Oh I crave the quick, warm contest of the 
rain, before whom flees 
Yonder pale, reluctant ice-king from the 
earth. 
I would feel the tender greeting of the drenched 
and shrouded trees 
Calling to me when their perfect life is 
almost at the birth. 



24 



A HAND 

COOL as the feel of shaded rock when June 
Places the seal of Summer on the land ; 
Firm as a sappling-stem, my lady's hand ! 
And smooth as breathless waters 'neath the moon ! 
Strong as the grasp of Fate, with mystic rune 

Spelt on the palm in lines that God has scanned ; 
With flesh and form in pure perfection planned 
To bear a burden or to grant a boon. 

Thy services are wise and manifold ; 

Both strength and gentleness are of thy realm; 
And in thy touch abides the power to stir 
Some dream of tender peace, or fires age-old. 
Thy hand lies in mine hand, as rests the helm 
Safe, in the clasp of the sure mariner. 



25 



THE WILD-CAT RIVER AT JACKSON, 

N. H. 

THE shattered clouds thou seizest from the height, 
To toss them down the crags in wild delight, 
Where weakling rills are lured unto thy might. 

Aye ! wild-cat, verily, whose cry may mock 

Gaunt winds, when writhing down from shock to shock 

Slips muscled water over bone of rock ! 

But thou canst also purr in drowsy pools, 

Elecked with some Autumn leaf whose shadow cools 

Unrippled stone below ; the high Sun tools 

With flawless lines each lightly drifting frond 
In dark reflection fluttering in the pond, 
Until the current coaxes it beyond ! 

What is it River, that thou dost pursue? 

The ocean-thought? some jewelled twig that flew 

Beyond thy clutch? some dream man never knew? 

Hush ! for an instant at this pool which keeps 
A listless pause from flight. The torrent reaps 
Herein its rest. The hunting Wild-Cat sleeps. 



26 



THE HOUSE OF PAIN 

TO L. B. 
BEFORE THE OPERATION 

MYSELF I went not to the House of Pain 
To bear the knife, or lie thus fever-spent 
As its pale-visaged company. I went 
Only to watch and wait and watch again 
With one much-loved; to see her face the wane 
Of unrelenting Time, who gave assent 
That one hour dawn with its accompaniment 
Of danger, awe, its heavy dreams of bane. 

The morning spoke aloud its vivid claim 

For each, of renewed life. Her courage knew 
No lessening, that we might scathless keep 
Our own from weakness and resultant shame . . 
They bore her through the dim, still hall into 
A glaring place of sickly, helpless sleep. 



27 



DURING THE OPERATION 

WE waited in some room, not silently, 
But with a talk of words that failed in thought. 
A dreary clock ticked off the time and wrought 
In us a subtly creeping misery, 
With thrusts of barb-like questioning. And we 
Could see the outer sunshine, rippling, caught 
Among the trees, spilled on the lawn and fraught 
With all the morning's wholesome ecstacy; 

Such joy we could nor share nor understand, 
For, Midas-like, it smote our hearts to cold, 
Hard-metalled things and dried life at the core. 
Then did I seek the hall and, listening scanned 
One entrance — barred ! Only might I behold 
Smooth-moving shadows through the parted door. 



28 



AFTER THE OPERATION 

I SAW her lying on the high, white bed, 
Still steeped in long unconsciousness ; upon 
Her face the mask of ether-sleep. Anon 
Came fitful knowledge and she moved her head, 
Loosely and heavily it turned. He said — 

(He whose firm, needful hands had wrought and won 
Her future strength) some gentle words that shone 
Into her wakening mind, past clouds of dread. 

She spoke — such struggling speech ! and one slow hand 

Groped with a burdened effort to her brow. 
I stood and saw her cross the borderland 

That leads to quickening realms where pain must grow. 
And I might only watch, nor go with her 
To taste in blackened hours the cup of myrrh. 



29 



EARLY MORNING HOCKEY AT 
OGONTZ 

TO M. T. S. 

OUT in the morning mists I leaped 
With quivering stick in hand, 
Out where the sunlight had not reaped 
The deep dews from the land ! 

The silent hockey field lay bare, 

Pale green ! the grasses' tears 
Were spread in softening, silver veil, 

And to invoke our fears 

Surrounding trees groped through the mist, 

With naked arms to plead ! 
Or swaying in the fog I wist 

Like strangely grown sea-weed. 

And there I found my Captain-girl, 
And we would stand, we twain 

Watched by some shy and curious merle, 
While the winds played amain 

With flying hair its pranks and quips ; 

We waited in the grey, 
Sucking the fog through parted lips, 

While eyes stared far away ! 

30 



For some few moments thus we stood, 

Before the friendly strife, 
Feeling our strength — and it was good ! 

And thanking God for life ! 

Then for the game — the quick hard game! 

The rush of the ball, 
As it sundered the troubled grass apart ! 

And a miniature waterfall 

A tossing fountain of early dew, 

Followed above ! 
And a long, dark lane denoted the path 

On which the ball did move ! 

Oh the bounding run on the dripping earth ! 

And the morning wind 
Blowing the shouts and the fog away 

Into a dim behind ! 

The click of the eager stick ! the throb 

As it sends the ball, 
Flying along with gathering might 

Under its waterfall ! 

The strength and truth of the girl are rife. 
Those shining mists of awakening day ! 
The joy, the exulting joy of life ! 

31 



The run and the eager, friendly strife ! 

What memories will stay ! 
When from these haunts the girl and I 

Have wandered far away ! 



32 



TO OGONTZ 

TO THE CLASS OF 1908 

MY Ogontz, may I dare to write of thee? 
Take this sharp, scalpel-pen and, with 
its strokes 
Lay bare that pulsing Past? Lo ! thou art great 
In what thou art to each of us, and all 
Have found thee in some vital sense the same. 
Mother, soul-builder, thus thou art to me : 



THE SCHOOL 

Like some old palace of enchanted tales, 
Set in a mystic grove of green, thou art, 
Ogontz, thou guardian of things over 
gold! 
Thou hoardest Youth, with all its 
coronal 
Of unstained hope, of brave and curious 
heart ; 
Not only youth in fervent flesh, but old 
Sweet spirit-youth of those whose noon-day 
fails, 
Youth leaping out from stones in 
miracle ! 



33 



Youth and the search for knowledge and for 
growth ! 
Court of dead poets and the clearing-house 
Of kingdom-lore and vague, envisioned 
myth ! 
A way-side shrine of Music's soul- 
wrung creed ! 
A gift of good for alien kin and kith 
Who may not share these bounties God 
allows ! 
A vow that plights the future its sure troth ! 

The fecund ground for our weak, hope- 
ful seed ! 



"THE BEECHES" 

Dear home, from stranger-dread grown wholly 
kind, 
Thou clingest to the hem of the wood's 
robe; 
Nor can my thought of thee break into 
words. 
But thus I see thee : in the trailing 
night 
From that old wooden walk, dimly outlined ! 
To mark the haven of loved wisdom- 
sherds, 

34 



From two unshuttered windows, beams 
forth light. . . 
My heart throbs yet to see a lamp's green 
globe ! 

OGONTZ SPRING-TIME 

Spring in the green-drenched woods, and on 
the grass, 
Bird-shadows and blown blossoms fluttering! 
White hands cupped full of purple violets! 
New-broken burdens of magnolia- 
flower ! 
The red earth scented by the sun and 
shower ! 
From every tree-top, as from minarets, 
The Wind's hushed call to prayer, that 
Youth may bring 
Worship of joy e'er yet its moments pass. 

FRIENDS 

My friends, and thine and thine ! lift up the 
wine, 
The endless wine of love unto those few 
Whose eyes swear faith, whose hand-clasp 
brings us hope, 
Whose kiss but seals the bond of 
charity ! 

35 



Old room, old haunt, no memory may decline ! 
'T was here we met with ancient screed 
to cope ; 
'T was there, the test of service found us 
true; 
And yon, some wrong was shriven as 
should be. 

Oh steady flare of helpful constancy ! 
Oh loyal labor of clean comradeship 

In drill and game ! Oh hours of joy too 
close 
To be outspelled, or writ save on the 

hearts 
Of one or two who learned the selfsame 
parts, 
And made their testaments in deeds, not 
prose. 
This hardy toast springs to an eager lip: 
God keep old love and new, 'twixt ye and me ! 



WISE WOMEN 

And now I pause, bewildered in this task. 
I cannot sound deep thanks beyond its edge 
And cry: "Fair Mind, I am beholden, — 
so ! " 

36 



But from a strange-grown garden, I 

would cull 
Three handfuls for the three who made 
life full. 
To you, who many ages didst unmask, 
I humbly proffer grave papyrus-sedge, 

Reeds of old lore that in my garden grow ! 

And Bay, for all the poet-lands you sent 

My startled footsteps wandering captive 
through. 
For you, dear Leader, here is Palm and 
still 
More Bay. Palm, since it lay before 

Christ's feet, 
And you have made Jerusalem's vague 
street 
Real as the lawn that slopes down yonder 
hill. 
And Bay, because my faulty song upgrew 
To feel the heat of words 'neath your intent. 

For you — O Mother of the least of us, 
Whose life rests as a savor near my life, 
Whose words of trust cling warm, when 
I am cold, 
Lo ! I have searched some brook of 
June, that wove 

37 



This perfect iris-flower, all tremulous 

With beauty, purple-veined for sorrow's 
strife, 
And gleaming with the sun's remembered 
gold. 
Mother, it is my bloom of deepest love ! 



38 



TO MRS. W. H. 

IN a cold, northern land where things are new, 
Men boastful of their money's power, where few 
Teach a wide servitude to gold, I found 
A house where beauty as in gardens grew. 

And like loved gardens, which in their attire, 
Their light and shadow welcoming, inspire 

Joy at the maker's skill, so was I glad 
To see this home reflect its central fire. 

There came to me a voice God made to sing 
Our tired winter into verdant Spring ; 

It took me by the heart and led me where 
I found old scenes in dear imagining. 

— Old scenes, like the sweet Aften of thy song; 
And, 'gainst the gentle English sky, a throng 

Of rooks who drifted idly near their nests. . . 
Such close-loved sights as one remembers long ! 

So would I lay these verses at thy feet, 
Though they be feeble thanks and all unmeet 

Acknowledgment, — Lady, forbear thy scorn, 
And with another Wig my shrift complete. 



39 



ATHLETES AT PRACTICE 

ACROSS the booming road, clogged with its drift 
Of thrumming engine and uneasy cart, 
The wide, dim campus heals the heated smart 
Of eye and brain. The day draws on her shift 
Of shadows and, like vibrant moths that sift 
'Twixt trees, the athletes stroll, or whitely dart, 
Cleaving the blackness in some winged start, 
Smooth as a slinger's stone — almost as swift! 

And while the passion seems all for the prize, 
'T is but of motion's joy a sane disguise. 

Lithe as bold panthers whom the hunt alarms ! 
Mark how that jumper gathers at the flight, 
— One moment since, a level, shooting light! 
And at yon tape — -the toss of naked arms ! 



40 



"GIVE US ... . DAILY BREAD" 

THEY two had trod together tens of years, 
Earnest and steadfast, of sere, noble heart. 
And Death stood near to draw them far apart. 
One stooped her to the other, weeping tears, 

And told the Weary Spirit of her love, 

That had been always, like a hidden spring, 
But at life's simpler, daily questioning, 

Had claimed no swift reply its depth to prove. 

And as they clung together in their stress, 
The weary Spirit cried : u O Heart, if thou 
And I had greatly given, as we are giving now, 

We had not needed Death to teach love's tenderness." 



41 



THE CARPENTER 



NOT distant from the village was his home, 
A shingled cottage, set in dusty green 
Of lanky grasses and low apple-trees, 
Whose matted boughs provoked the pallid scale, 
Whose fruit was pebble-hard. (Ah ! the white snarl 
And incense of their earlier blossoming !) 

Our way lay past this place, whene'er we drove 
Into the village, dreaming 'neath its elms. 

We saw the Carpenter return from work, 

To find his boy crouched tensely by the brook, 

Launching a squadron of leaf-sailed ships, 

Driving them toward the current with his breath ! 

The father's cap was off, to greet our smiles, 

iEolus waved one muddy-streaked hand — • 

Thus condescending from his god-like toil. 

The woman on the porch held up her child, 

A baby, sweet as only babies are ! 

(I mind me how one eve I held her close 

And how her murmurs counselled and her hands 

Passed in capricious blessing o'er my face !) 

And life seemed in that cottage unafraid, 
Sturdy to joy in work and growth and love. 

42 



II 



We heard the Carpenter had gone to seek 
One who interpreted from look and line. 
Perused the body's meaning like a psalm, 
As some wise student scans a mystic book 
To trace within the tale of life or death. 
And this deep scholar of the flesh could read 
Here but the heavy screed of blotched pain, 
Dulled fainter to a page of nothingness. 

The Carpenter came home. There would he sit, 

His chair tipped back against an apple-tree, 

A shining pallor on his unshaved cheek, 

His eyes like wind-blown lights that meet the dark. 

And, if we paused to greet him, one slow hand 

Would motion gently to his head and fall 

In cordial hopelessness and a dim smile 

Moved on his lips a second and was gone. 

He sat there through the silken August days, 

The patient guest of inhospitable life. 

What did he think, those lethal Summer hours, 
Midst color and midst heat? (Red cardinals 
Sutured the scar-like stream ; on apple-boughs 
The flame-stroked Tanager startled the green. . .) 

Grudged he the misty dawns? the inevitable dark 
Vowing all life to silence and the stars? 

43 



And, seeing his boy at play upon the earth, 
And in the height, the airy-cushioned hawk 
Loll on the wind with wide and vital wings, 
Did he, too sick for strength, too tired for play, 
Forbear to mark his labor's end? — the while 
The harvesters went forth, the peddlers passed, 
The village-grocer-carts, the carriers 
Jogged on the road of hope, of things that last 
Their time appointed on the wholesome earth ! 

Dear God, what didst thou let him think? I passed 
And could have wept the soundness of my strength, 
To see him waiting for the whim of death, 
So quietly, so humbly in the shade. 
I had no myrrh to give, unless a prayer 
That Christ might bless his common calvary. 



Ill 



I read, some days ago, that he was gone. 
This Carpenter, who knew our lovely hills, 
Now knows the visioned vastnesses of death 
Now sees the Carpenter of Nazareth. 



44 



THE ORCHARD-SEA 

TO M. L. D. 

BERRIES are red at the orchard's far end, 
And the high, pleasant grasses caress the 
long hill. 
See, at the top how the strippling-trees bend, 
As their crests brush the cloud-webs that 
hover so still ! 
And through the long grasses that sway like 

the sea, 
Rideth my Baby-fair's craft to me. 

Hark ! as I work to ingather the fruit, 

I am hailed in a tongue that the fairies may 

spell ; 

Brave, the wee craft lurcheth over yon root ! — 

Should one call her a craft or a grass-ocean 

shell ? 

What matter? since breasting the wild 

orchard-sea, 
Fareth my white-and-gold Love to me ! 



45 



BERRY-BOY 

BERRY-BOY of August, with your shining pail, 
— Shining eyes and fruit-stained grin, 
Bare-foot, blue-shirt imp o' sin — 
Wander in the highway, byway and the dale. 

Where the old wall totters and the woods begin ! 

Berry-boy of August, whistling like a bird, 
(Tyrant of the toad and turtle, 
Skilled, from slings, the stone to hurtle !) 

Who but Pan, as playmate blew that music, heard 
Far away on dream-coasts in a grove of myrtle? 

Berry-boy of August, galliard at thy toil, 

Plucking atoms of the night 

From each bush where they alight, 
What a jewel-burden, what a pirate's spoil, 

Worth a speck o' silver and a glorious kite ! 



46 



RESOLUTION 

WHEN all the bulk of earth hath change incurred, 
— Been quickened into Life a space, to pass 
Back to such stuff as clouds the way-side grass — 
Remain the ghosts of Music and the Word 
Man tamed to poesie. Each age hath heard 

Each speak, in echoes from Time's dim crevasse, 
And in clear vatic rhythm, to touch the mass, 
With austere truth, when listless, it hath erred. 

So hath each great one left a little part 
Of what was nearer to him than the beat 

Of his own pulse — yea, even a speck of strong 
Sure immortality in the aged mart. 

Lord, when this planet writhes in final heat, 

What wilt thou do with all the earth's old song? 



47 



MINE HABITATION 

WHEN I have loved and worked and paid full score 
And see upon the threshold of Death's door 
The sombre-visaged host, all welcoming, 
I 'd not be tardy in mine entering, 
Nor shrink from unknown immortality ; 
Nay, though the spirit quail at what it see, 
— Warm from the body's close embrace and pent 
So lately in the weakness it has rent — 
From the familiar life of love and sin, 
To stranger death may I go bravely in ! 

This be my one regret ! — for we must hope 

That man meet man where none shall grope 

For truth — mine eyes shall never see again 

The place I foremost love. What though the strain 

Of rousing trump despoil each tomb and flesh 

Knit rotted bone to bone in life afresh, 

And we companions' faces do acclaim, 

My dwelling-place is not. Time owns the blame. 

A city gnawed with its encroaching streets 

My wood and hill. . . Years melt and the world meets 

Decrepitly its tasks, withered and shrunk. 

Perchance my cherished spot in slime has s'unk 

To the foul bottom of some sluggish sea 

As yet unborn ! — shorn of fertility 

And fruit, these fields ! 

48 



Alas ! the world is old, 
The seas grown sleepy and the Summers cold. 
And we, the Risen, quaffing renewed breath, 
Find earth as strange as erstwhile found we death. 

So shall the Great God look with gentle eyes, 
If I bear one sad thought to Paradise. 



49 



AN EVEN-SONG 

THE woodland's twilight radiance sinks in brown, 
The leaves have changed to greenish mist 
black-barred, 
While in the West, reluctant Day casts down 
Her tribute-stuffs to Evening, many-starred. 

Few moments since, the top-most twigs of oak, 
The very leaves, were frangible and gold, 

So brittle-thin, small wonder that some broke 
And fell before the breeze upon the mould. 

Night's purple ministers have stored away 
All treasure but one ultimate gold thread 

That loosely stitches heaven to earth's dull grey 
And seams the stars in clusters overhead. 

Ah ! now the aisles are tenantless no more ; 

Day's unbelief obscured the wood-gods' fane, 
But darkness can sweet mysteries restore, 

Bring from each shrub some dryad-sigh of pain. 

And every air reverberates with sound. 

The owl may spend his woeful note till dawn . . . 
A dead stick snaps ! what dim, suspicious ground ! 

This hand outstretched might touch a shrinking 
faun ! 

50 



My heart is watching from the covert's close, 
Its every sense laid bare to loveliness 

That deepens inly, as the open rose 
Cups all her richest color in recess. 



51 



EARTH-THOUGHT 

i iT MOUNT the vast and vacant lanes of light, 
A Oblivious of the fearful voids of space. 

And when the golden Power has bathed my face 
With rich, creative heat, I leave his sight 
To drift through misty silences of night, 

Lifting to warmth some day-forsaken place. 

^Eons and aeons, midst the wheeling race, 
I spawn the mass apportioned to my might. 

"I bear unreckoned life, — things that are bold, 
Who curb my wanton waters and compel 

Their craft on vagrant winds. They war and lust 
Then slumber and return their borrowed dust ; 
Alway they grope to find the Power's spell 
— But die! and I endure, though I am old." 



52 



MOON-GRIEF 

THE cold, gaunt Moon looked on the distant earth, 
And somberly she mused : "I have no tears, 
No rains to weep ; no winds, these many years 
Sigh for mine aridness. My youngest birth 
Is all-consumed, my offspring dead to worth. 
Only, dumb-mouthed a crater-brood uprears 
A million gaping lips, to hail the spheres, 
That find no utterance to sound their dearth. 

Ah ! World, that gleams so far in the earth-shine, 
What if thine issue fester thy fair flanks 

With sordid cities? Though they stab each hill 
For gold and mingle blood with dust and brine, 
And drive the oceans through thy closed banks, 
Thou art life-bearer to the Great One still ! " 



53 



TO H. R. H. THE DUKE OF CONNAUGHT 

ON HIS APPOINTMENT AS GOVERNOR-GEN- 
ERAL TO THE DOMINION OF CANADA 

A SON to many sons hath England sent, 
From the old stronghold of true brotherhood, 
To this far younger gathering of her race. 
She sends him forth, the King's wise governor, 
Mature and fine, one of her goodly men. 

What shall he mean to us, this son of kings, 
England's Duke Arthur, come unto our shores? 
He is to guide the thought of multitudes, 
To touch the hands, in amity, of those 
Who thread the arteries of this North land, 
Who feed into the solemn solitudes 
Constructive life ! He is to learn the ways 
Of these his younger kinsmen, serving them 
(Men swiftly sprung to sudden eminence 
Without the gifts of brave inheritance) 
With his fair service, knowing if he stoop, 
He shall but rise the loftier anew. 

Ah Canada ! yet let him give us more, 
Heir of great Arthur whom the poets love, 
Whom young lads dream of with wide, wistful eyes ! 
Our giant land hath limbs that grow full strong, 

54 



Muscle and brawn and rich fertility. 
But still, O Brother, still the spirit sleeps. 
Lo ! some do mock at age and call it dust, 
Deriding custom and despoiling life 
Of veriest living, in their brain-warped hunt 
For gold, for change, for what another hath ! 
A man is valued, not by what his mind 
Hath ably garnered, but by what he holds 
Within the clenched fingers of his hand. 

Duke Arthur, thou hast come to us from where 
The good of Veneration still abides, 
Where seeping knowledge of a nation's spring, 
Gathers in frequent pools that flash before 
The world's astonishment — poets, heroes, 
Artists, Philosophers and manful kings ! 
Let us accept thee, Prince, to represent 
Not only our liege-lord, but all the great 
Broad spirit of the best that England hath. 
Let us believe that thou hast come to wake 
With that, our nation-soul into a high 
Humility — such as King Arthur wore! 
That this young Athlete, starting on the race, 
May bow his head for knighthood, to the Past. 



55 



THE KNOWER 

THE ageless One, amid the childish band, 
Thought as a child, and all fair life He scanned 
With simple, curious sight. Yea, He was one 
With the child-heart from the eternal land. 

The ageless One looked down on her who kneeled 
To bathe His feet with tears. Then was revealed 

No more, in Him, the child, but sentient love, 
Aware of life, of weakness' bitter yield. 

Toward Judah's city gazed the ageless One, 
Brooding, like some wise, watchful star upon 

Man's yearnings, linked to impotence and sin. 
And God, among the olives, wept alone. 



56 



THE CRUCIFIXION 

THE dauntless Christ of suffering 
Sags on the cumbered cross, 
Pure, bruised and slain — 
White, in His death of pain 
As drooping blood-root flung upon grey moss. 
And all around the King, 

The lowering clouds have come 
And wind about the hill in protest dumb, 
To hide the body of the Lord 
From the astonishment of Heaven's horde ; 
While ceaseless, in the apprehensive pause, 

Flickers the labored breath 
That Mary draws, 

In tearless love and grief before God's death ! 

And then the voice of startled Nature wakes. 

The passion of the outraged earth 
Abounds and breaks 
In threnody of dearth. 

Peels out the anguish of the air that fills 
The hollows of the moaning hills. 

But lo ! it rains not. While her Lord must sleep 
Nor Mary nor the earth find facile tears to weep. 

Vague darkness falters through the day. 
The hosts of men with curious eyes, 
Who came to stare upon the agonies 

57 



Of the serene Offender's late defeat, 
Have fled with loosened tongues away. 

And Mary stands beside His blood-marked feet, 
With lifted look to pierce the blackness, spun 
About harsh Calvary — 
And sees nor man, nor One in Trinity 
Upon that mighty cross — only her Son ! 



58 



EARTH-LOVE 

EARTH, above all, can make us best content, 
Who love her harvests and her fecund ground : 
The meek fields, lying hopeful neath the wound 
Of furtive plough ! new foliage, drooping spent 
And languid from its long embodiment 

Within the bud ! and fine, vague threads of sound — 
Limitless life, moving in a profound 
Simplicity of woodland incident ! 

Earth is the Healer, whose slow, kindly art 
Renews vitality, gives wine for myrrh ; 

Earth is the Teacher, with reward and rod, 
Offering her knowledge to man's wondering heart; 
Earth is the Lover and the Laborer 

Who bears and rears incessantly for God. 



59 



HOUSE-OPENING 

I FOUND the house all winter-bound and still ; 
As thick and fine as wool the soft dust clung ; 
Dark cobwebs bellied from the beams like jibs, 
When the damp, swollen sash was upward flung, 
Admitting April air to lathy ribs — 
It caused through the whole frame a sighing thrill ! 

The chairs were huddled white, like frightened sheep, 
The rooms gaped wide and strange, as though some trick 
Had changed them from their warm and homely size 
To clammy spaces, dreary, wan and sick. 

The books slouched on their shelves before my eyes. 
The house had slept a dumb, resentful sleep. 

Then the stout furnace fed the icy veins 

With heat, each shutter creaked back on its hinge ; 

The hot scent of the budding woods made stir, 
And sunlight grained the dust in golden tinge. 
The linen-shelves were sweet with lavender, 
And hearth-fires hummed their mezza-voce strains. 

Water and air and work ! A jocund task 
To deal such loving kindness to this place, 

So meek and loyal in long servitude ! 
Thus might one bathe a dear and soiled face, 
Smiling to find the labor glad and good — 
To see the face put off an ugly mask ! 

60 



Now in the silences of dusk, I rest 

Alone among the ordered books and brood 

On Life — connecting length by length — 
That gave this dwelling in the mountain-wood ; 
With wearied flesh, I find my Spirit's strength 
And feel the Builders' dreams most manifest. 



61 



SONNET 

I HAVE been sitting long, this afternoon, 
Trading a talk of tales — fair merchandise 
To barter while the passing day-light flies, 
Or purchase for the gold of wit's doubloon ! 
Now the gay company is gone, and soon 

Are spent the ghosts of laugh and mimicries — 
Indifferent gain at best, when more I prize 
This stillness with its meditation-boon. 

I turn from them ; even the thought of thee 
Is dearer and our wordlessness more worth. 
Thou knowest my mind's wares to thee belong, 
But speech unfolds flower-like in Arcady. 
So, close within the dusk, too glad for mirth, 
Beloved choose — my silence or my song ! 



62 



SONNET 

THAT I should work, I may not well deny; 
In truth, Beloved, I have sent to school 
Some stamm'ring rhymes, to bid them tread by rule, 
But all the while, the master-thoughts would fly 
To take each phase of our dear constancy 
And — spurning dogged effort for a tool, 
That drives set purpose toward a dunce's stool — 
Bourgeon the tale in careless rhapsody. 

Reason, I '11 leave a recluse in his cell, 
For heart is calling, and the hours pass. 
Let Wisdom's hermit hold deserted mass ! 
My love has gone among the fields to dwell, 
Now hawthorne-gay, now sad as asphodel, 
It lives untrammelled as the common grass. 



63 



SONNET 

I SOUGHT my garden on a windy eve, 
When heaven was grey and near and I — alone. 
A sudden gust of far-off moods, once-known 
Came on the scent of heliotrope to weave 
A startled questing in the heart, to leave 

Mere mind aloof. How red one bush had grown, 
Heavy with roses ! and white fox-gloves shone 
Like fadeless rockets, gleaming in reprieve. 

And there, when all my life was gathering 
The sense of beauty as one gathers flowers, 
Thy presence came, significant and close ; 
As though long weeks were dreamed and not one thing 
Divided us from all our loveliest hours. 

Dear, wast thou in my garden ? Ah ! God knows. 



64 



OLD SONG 

SORROW, Sorrow, 
Whence come ye? whither go? 
"I come from the dunes of pallid moons, 
And out on the tears of yester-years 
I pass on winds of woe." 

Sorrow, Sorrow, 

And wilt thou not abide? 

" When the sap of grief dries in the leaf 
When the shadows shrink at evening's brink, 

My barque must take the tide." 

Cling to me, kind Sorrow, 

No shadow giveth rest. 

Ah Jesu ! my Sweet hath silent feet, 
His eyes that were light are lidded night, 

His soul wakes in my breast — 

Sorrow ! 



65 



"THE PROSPERITY OF FOOLS SHALL 
DESTROY THEM " 

THE empty plains are ripe for useful yield, 
The trackless woodlands need a master-hand, 
The silent realms await some sturdy band 
Who fear their God and till the mellow field, — 
Men of old frontier-mould, whose living sealed 
Their tireless faith ; whose iron years were planned 
To forge a vital state and leave the land 
To such sound growth as vatic gaze revealed. 

But now the reign of steam a turgid horde, 
Oft-times of weaklings, strews upon the soil, 
That they who own the steam may grasp the spoil, 

Careless of future, so they reap reward ! 

What hybrid will this human mass afford 
To mar or make a nation by its toil ? 



66 



MY MOTHER 

SHE lays her life, a gentleness along 
Our lives, more rugged and, 'midst ceaseless strain 
Of illness that affronts her daily force, 
Bears with her kindness — like wood-shade in June ! 

She is the first to measure happiness 

By our content, to lavish motherhood 

On the grown children, who have greater need, 

Perchance than little ones, of solace sweet. 

She is the last to see our hopes laid by ; 
She feeds our joy with smiles and gives her tears 
To cool our sadness. Frail and human-faint, 
Her life reveals the courage of the Spring. 



67 



CANOEING ON THE ALLEGHENY 
RIVER 

SILENT as time, the river feels its way, 
With lines as supple as the curving throat 
That purely sweeps to meet a woman's breast. 
Mighty, the river stirs between the hills, 
Who fling rich tribute to their passing lord : 
Rain, that calls noisily from root and stone ; 
Shadows, that wing the current as a hawk, 
Dark-hovering, wings the upper, brilliant air. 

The Sun has withered at the touch of night, 
And languid mists creep up the mountain-sides, 
As though some hand had brimmed the valley o'er 
With great, sky-weary clouds. And there, beyond 
The shaggy outline of the hills, I see 
That monthly miracle, the ripened Moon, 
Stained by the drowsy fog, till it would seem 
To be a bleeding Moon, snared in the trees ; 
The while its substance trickles down the slope 
Onto the curious waters, till they flush 
In timorous pity with swift shudderings. 

An owl is calling in the wood ; some voice, 
Upon the further shore, dies in a laugh. 
The browsing cattle lilt their lazy bells 
In blur of sound from hidden pasturage. 

68 



Next dins a metalled clangor on the ear, 
Where man has bade the serviceable rock 
Yield him its hoarded oil ; and, in the night, 
That pulsing crash might well rise from the forge 
Of Vulcan toiling midst the massive cliffs. 
The cadence fades, as we float on, and dies 
Amid the endless wreathing of the stream, 
Until the very silence has grown dumb. 
And then the Moon swings free, far in the height 
Of gleaming, icy space and all the flow 
Of Allegheny rides in golden flood. 



69 



TO GENERAL NOGHI 

THE EAST 

WHY should the spirit keep its mortal dress, 
When Noghi's master shed mortality? 
The Prince divine he served through vital stress, 

Nor would outlast the glory of his lord ; 
His guerdon was death's honor — nothing less! 

THE WEST 

Blazon it forth to make the papers sell : 

"The Samurai's heroic sacrifice ! 
For suicide, preserved from shot and shell." 

" What heights of fame, what depth of crude belief ! 
Now should such action merit heav'n or hell ? " 

THE IDEALIST 

Brave, honest gentleman, who met the strife 
Of war and grief with a priest's faithfulness, 

Our lips may question love so strong and rife — 
Even thy mate's and thine, that wrought ye death ; 

But hearts acclaim that love purer than life ! 



70 



ECHOES 

DEAL gently with the past, let us not scorn 
That Dreamer whom this present self denies, 
Whose troubled paths are censured by these eyes 
Grown sapient with the times. The years have shorn 
For us Life's fleece of gold and nature, worn 
Of youth, restless to spend its energies 
And penetrate the mummer Fate's disguise, 
Is gone from all the beckonings of morn. 

So, in this customed round, if there should start 
Some long-forgotten stab of poignant grief, 
Some dead, essential joy we held in fief 
To youth, — accept the gleam with open heart, 
With-holding praise or blame till it depart, 
And warm our spirits at the old belief. 



71 



A WAKEFUL LUTANIST 



THE Moon hath moulted one long, silver plume 
Into the dimness of mine upper room ; 
Thus through my soul 
Thy love broke in and 'mong its shadows stole. 

The lute of dreams hath shining strings — alas ! 
They blacken where these fingers trace and pass. 

I strike the lute, 

And all the music of the dream is mute. 

Come to me in the fields, come in the sun, 
Follow me from the dark ! Where day's begun 

Heart, follow after, 

Till winds are wine and love is washed in laughter ! 

Here in the lonely night, all changeth shape, 

Like dangerous wine, pulped from the wholsome grape. 

Ah ! speak — speak now ! 

I touched the soul of thee, — are thou not thou ? 

Give me the cordial madder of thine hope 
To dye the shadows ruddy where I grope, 

And wipe with trust, 

From these taut nerves the doubt of humid rust. 

72 



Love, may I know thee in the pits of sleep ? 
Crush me the poppy's juice; I will drink deep 

And search the stars, 

Or craters with their baleful, muffled jars ! 

And if I faint and reel midst worlds uncouth, 
Ah wilt thou find and kiss me mouth to mouth ? 

E'er the Moon dips, 

Heal me the music of these fevered lips ? 

Repair the tangle that this head hath spun, 

With thy strong hands, and breathe : " Dear foolish One, 

I kept each tryst. 

Sleep on my breast in peace, wan lutanist. 

" We are of earth and know the faults of earth. 
We grow ; Beloved let us grow toward mirth. 

What hindereth 

That we may give, forgive and love till death ? " 

Ah ! follow to the light where wind is wine ! 
Thy love is cast in other mould than mine ; 

1 was inept 

To lash my credence when it might have slept. 

Bring me such service as thy love affords, 
Forgetting ritual in fervent words ! 

And cheer my soul 

Before the flame within thy golden bowl. 

73 



Love, love, my bread were broken at thy need ; 

To warm thee, chilled, I 'd blow my fire's last gleed. 

Thou who art strong 

Shrink not beneath the shadows of my song ! 

Ah follow to the hills where nothing wars ! 
And when the leaves are fretting like close stars 

In winds above, 

We will nor touch nor speak, but know our love. 



74 



PAVLOWA AND NOVIKOFF 
DANCING 

"automne bacchanale" 

MOTION of ecstasy, whorled to us hither, 
Flesh light as leaves that the Autumn-frosts wither ! 
Creatures of myth, lo ! a turbulent Chance 
Fashioned your knees amidst musical reeds, 
Bred in your limbs the onrush of the wind, 
Rhymed ye and loosed ye to all Grace designed. 
Come, in a gust of wild bacchanal dance, 
Fury of joy, when the vine-fruit bleeds ! 

Stampeth the hoof of the Faun, while his mate 

Mocks neath the moon — as a rose wields her thorn ! 
Masterly springeth the male in his hate; 

Flies she, like ripples of shade on the corn ; 
— Turning to capture as Day turns to Night ! 
Seeking his breast from the pang of the flight ! 

Rapturous, quivering, beautiful twain ! 

Willows at rest from the gale, again ! 



75 



A LETTER 

A LETTER is a promise half-defined, 
Between some lives ; a hint of all fair thought 
From which its words are impotently wrought. 
A letter is the shadow of a mind, 
Unto whose very being eyes are blind ; 
A distant, vital hail, that time has brought 
Across its ground-swell, with old meanings fraught 
To fill the heart with what is but outlined. 

A letter has a body and a soul, 

It counts its value nor in length nor tale. 
Dear child, and if I send you but one page, 
Ink-veined with drifting fancies — feinting scroll ! — 
By less and less mine ardor doth not fade, 
Love handles clouds, forgetting to be sage. 



76 



TRAVELLERS 

i ill THERE hast thou strayed, old friend, 
V V these countless moons?" 

" My keel hath cleft a dozen battling seas, 
My vision probed forgotten verities, 
My foot-fall beaten on earth's boundaries. 
Where hast thou stayed, tell me, dear calm- 
eyed One?" 

" My dreams have laid their courses midst the 

stars, 
Mine eyes have read the rune of pain's slow 

scars, 
My watch-worn love has trembled near 

Heaven's bars." 

The wanderer looked humbly on the friend. 

" Thy moorings granted more than trade-winds' 

breath ; 
Thy sight hath found, where mine but ques- 

tioneth ; 
I reached the gates of dawn — but thou — of 

death ! " 



77 



SKI-RUNNER'S SONG 

TO P. F. J. 

THE cold North wind has bellied out 
The slack of all the clouds ; 
From the dipped mast-head of the evening sun 
Fall taut the slim gold shrouds. 

The World seems sliding down through space, 

Her canvas white unfurled, 
And my skis and I from the proud hill's top 

Come sliding down the world. 

The seas of snow are purple-grey 

And blue each billowed mound ! 
And I fly as swift as the strong wild duck, 

— As swift as falling sound ! 

Down, down, down the weltering snows 

That reel away like foam, 
Through the staring track on the hill's great flank 

Beneath a windy dome ! 

Both heart and nerve in close accord ! 

The earth a blur of things ! 
Until drunk with joy of the tempest-flight 

The lowlands steal my wings. 



78 



TO THE THOMAS ORCHESTRA 

THE orchestra was like a magic grove 
Of dark fraternal trees, whose singing leaves 
Were many hands that fluttered in the strong 
And febrile Morris of the music's storm; — 
Like green and mirthful leaves* who whirling strain 
At sturdy stems, eager to be released, 
Their faces pale with tremulous desire 
To ride the rushing gale high up to heaven ! 
But even as the trees clothe them in peace 
Anew, and weary joy, so all the leaves 
In this wise human grove have chimed on each 
The tale of glory felt within the sap, 
And the white tremor of their ecstasy 
Sinks in a languid, satisfied repose. 



79 



DIVORCE 

THINK of me love, think now each tenderness 
You thought of old, before the silver cord 
Of life be loosed. Ah ! let me feel thy word 
Anoint my tiring brow in pure caress ! 
If only in the yawning hour of stress 

I did not know such solace were outpoured, 
Granting the chrism my spirit has implored 
I could endure and count this strife success. 

But mite on mite, the earth unrolls between ; 

And who are they who may love much and keep? 
We clasp some hand, some broken message fling, 
And pass where labors will not let us weep. 
And Time deals out false balm, diminishing 
The noble hurt of Loss that Love had seen. 



80 



U AND THE WATERS PREVAILED 
EXCEEDINGLY" 

THE furious heavens have hoarded the rain ; 
From the mountainous winds the avalanche falls. 
The rivers are bloated 
And bay angry-throated, 
But still the cold torrents drum down on the plain, 
And the storm in the forest buffets and mauls. 

The cities are caught in a doom that appals, 

For the staggering streams have ruptured each scar ; 
There foaming and scudding 
And massively flooding 
The river heaves out, on the land, in its brawls, 
And enfolds a pale town as night wraps a star. 

Awake, O ye people, Death rides swift and far ! 

Where you feasted with mates and carolled your glees, 
There rages the river 
And laps, as you shiver ! 
No sound in the streets of a horse, or a car, 
But the cries of those trapped in terrible seas ! 

When human and cold-stricken fruit from the trees 
Drops to death in the current — God, heal the sight ! 
O pity forsaken, 
When fires must awaken 
To scorch a cracked cup to the sickening leas ! 

May the olive-leaf come with dawn to that night ! 

81 



ANNUAL TRAMP OF THE SNOW-SHOE 
CLUBS OF MONTREAL 

THROUGH the snowy, gusty storm, 
— White confetti tossed o'er all ! — 
See ! the snow-shoe clubs do form 
For their yearly carnival ! 

Light raquettes are shoulder-borne 
To the sounding drum and horn ! 

Grey-and-white dim ghosts of night, 

Wearing tuque and moccasin ! 
Blanket-coats now colored bright, 
Weird as old Arabian Jinn ! 

'Neath their torches' windy flare 
Now they 're marching, pair on pair ! 

Thus they hold traditions old, 
And recall their hero-tales : 
How the simple "Coureurs" bold 
Ranged the forest without trails ! 
And the Priests, 'mid snows untrod 
Taught the Iroquois of God ! 



82 



FOUR STUDIES IN SCARLET 

THE blithe Spring winds beat on their tabret-leaves, 
Stretched taut and green upon each fibrous frame, 
And, redder than its heart, the Tanager 
Clings to a twig — a scrap of vocal flame ! 

The dim ravine is cool in August noon; 

There, arrogant and slim, the Cardinal-flow'rs 
Start like blood-vested butterflies, or glow 

Like sudden drops from Bacchus' winy show'rs. 

The pitying Cedar shelters on her breast 

A wisp of Autumn-vine, — belike, some thread 

The Norns spun richly in a Hero's cord 

That broke, and breaking loosed this stained shred ! 

The pallid Winter guards her glutted fires. 

The ruddy tides of Dawn and Eve draw nigh 
And strew their cloud-conchs, or their frail star-shells 

Upon the open beaches of the sky. 



83 



RODIN'S "LE PENSEUR" 

THIS man of thought has sundered all the bars 
That gaol his mighty spirit in the street, 
And like some fighter, senseless of defeat, 
Stabs with bold vision up among the stars. 
Sentry of science in relentless wars, 

He sifts the sham from truth yet incomplete, 
Taming construction from a lonely seat, 
Sunk in a selflessness no clamor jars. 

Type of new demi-gods who deftly fling 
A pulsing speech athwart the tangled airs ! 
They sever continents and blend for use 
The waters of the earth. With clouds they wing ! 
O Mind that grapples Fate, that dreams and dares 
Thou art a grim mortality's excuse. 



84 



RODIN'S "ADAM" 

HE stands, new-moulded from the drowsy dust, 
Full-grown to all life's savage mysteries ; 
Feeling the stuff of self in struggling knees 
And sagging limbs ; still burdened with slow lust, 
— Earth's dazed desire for nescience 'neath the crust 
Of earth ! His strength unfolds, ev'n as the trees 
Unfold their young, bewildered leaves; he sees 
Not yet, from heavy eyes, God's imposed trust. 

O Adam, myth-crowned father of our kind, 
I did not dream that thou couldst be so faint, 

Or feel humanity as some dull shame, 
That bound an eagle-spirit in restraint ! 

Who shall oppress that massive brow with blame. 
Although Jehovah's warning found the blind? 



85 



RODIN'S " PYGMALION AND GALATEA" 

O FORTUNATE Pygmalion, thou hast known 
The holy joy of thought and touch and form, 
And love's most tender and most desperate storm, 
Although the woman was but lustrous stone ! 
Then to thine haggard longing, change was shown : 
Deriding all the laws of Nature's norm, 
While Galatea's flesh grew soft and warm . . . 
She stood like some pure blood-root, April-blown. 

And there thou watchedst her in dumb amaze; 
That hand — once sure — now halting at her knee, 
While all thine hope is centered on her eyes, 
To find, within that lightly-petalled gaze 
Acceptance of her unborn entity, 

And love's first shock of tremulous surprise. 



86 



LOWLY MIRACLES 

COME, share with me this simple, fleeting joy ! 
A vase of iris-blooms before some books ! 
The late sun filters through fine, yellow sprays 
And limns a bud against Egyptian lore. 
The room is one with twilight, save this stroke 
Of amber gleam, that, even as I write, 
Restores to shadow all the shining flowers. 
"O thou whom my soul loveth" — thus I love, 
That I would take the day's most haunting change 
On some familiar, serviceable thing 
And lift it up unto thy curious gaze, 
That we may bare our hearts to self-same joy ; 
For I so need thee when the spirit draws 
The utmost miracle from sight and sound . . . 
And yet I need thee in the rude noon's stress. 




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